Page 62 of Cupid Comes to Little Valentine

Clementine went willingly, overwhelmed by the depth of emotion she saw in him, so raw and so unexpected. When his arms went around her and his lips found hers, she knew at once she would have everything she had dreamed of. Perhaps he did not realise it yet, but Sylvester would give her the marriage she wanted, because he wanted it too.

The touch of his skin against hers was a delicious shock, heat and silk and the press of a body that was like and so unlike hers. He intrigued her, and her hands moved restlessly, exploring, wanting to discover everything all at once.

Laughing softly, Sylvester caught hold of her hands. “It’s not a race,” he told her, before lifting her into his arms.

Clementine clutched at his shoulders, panicked for a moment until she realised how very strong he was, for he lifted as if she weighed nothing, when she was very aware she was no lightweight.

“I’ve got you,” he said, amusement in his voice as he carried her to the bed and laid her down upon the mattress.

Clementine immediately sat up, not wanting to miss a thing as she saw him untying the silk belt on his banyan. He let it fall, exposing all she had wished to see, but he did not allow her the time to gaze at him in rapt admiration as she certainly could have done given the chance. Instead, he climbed onto the bed, pushing her down as his mouth captured hers again, and she reached for him, relishing the heat and the weight of him as he pressed closer. Yet, she did not wish to have her chance taken from her, and she pushed him back, not hard, yet he moved away as if she’d shoved him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, his brows tugging together in concern.

“Yes, I want to look,” she said, struggling to get to her knees on the soft mattress. His lips quirked at that, his worry disappearing.

“I am at your disposal, my lady,” he said gravely.

Clementine hid her smile and gave a brisk nod. “Good.”

Still, it took her a moment to gather her courage. He watched as she reached out, until she almost touched his shoulders, and then he closed his eyes as she traced a path over his skin, lightly at first, her fingertips skimming his collarbone. Eager now, she flattened both hands against him and smoothed her palms over his chest, delighting in the scattering of wiry hair that gleamed bronze in the lamplight. Finding the intriguing little flat disk of his nipple, her thumb rubbed back and forth. He gasped, and so she did it again. His eyes flicked open, watching as she became increasingly fascinated at the way the tiny nub of flesh grew taut beneath her touch.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he said, giving her the benefit of a devilish grin as he reached for her.

Clementine gasped, then closed her eyes as he gently pinched and tugged, his thumbs gently pinching the tight little peaks. The sensation was riveting, sending delicious darts of electricity shooting through her, and it was not until she felt the tickle of his hair against her skin that she realised he had moved nearer. She opened her eyes just as he closed his mouth over her breast, moaning against her skin as he suckled her.

The moment was sweet and dark as molasses and suddenly her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer still as her breathing grew ever more erratic. It seemed her husband was similarly affected, as his mouth moved over her, his hands doing likewise, his touch no longer so leisurely, but filled with an urgency that she wholeheartedly supported.

“Lay down,” he rasped, and the sound of his voice, so low and husky, thrilled her to her core, for it revealed the desperation he felt, that she felt too, and the sharing of that need seemed to tug them together, not only physically, but in all ways.

“Tell me to slow down,” he said, raising his head to look in her eyes as he moved over her, settling between her thighs. “Tell me to stop being such an impatient brute and take my time.”

Clementine only laughed and shook her head. “Hurry!” she exclaimed. “Before I go mad.”

“Oh, God,” he moaned the words as her skin met his. “Oh, love.” He slid between her legs and Clementine refused to feel shame as he discovered her skin slick with desire. Certainly, the revelation seemed to inflame him as he growled against her ear. “I need to be inside you.”

Despite the urgency of his words, he slowed his touch, and when he pushed forward he did so gently, with the tenderness she had known he would show her, and yet she felt the trembling in his limbs, the restraint required to give her these moments to adjust to the sudden invasion.

“Sylvester,” she said, not wanting him to slow down despite knowing that he knew best, and she pulled her legs up, grasping at him as she tugged him close.

She made a sharp sound, half protest, half surprise, as he groaned and thrust deeper. Panting as he continued to move, Clementine forced her tense muscles to relax, to give way, and then his mouth found hers and he kissed her and suddenly it was easy, as natural as breathing and, oh, the feel of him, of this. She was lost, overwhelmed, and from the way he touched her, with such reverence, murmuring sweet words and reassurances, he felt the same way.

As his movements became more rhythmic, her hands roved over him, stroking him, her touch gentle and loving, wondering if he could understand what it was she was trying to tell him, to show him. Though her heart trembled at the possibility he might close the door on an even greater level of intimacy, he opened his eyes, and she lost herself in his expression. He gazed down at her with wonder, warmth and desire coalescing into something she could not only see but feel in her heart. Time hung suspended as he loved her, nothing of the outside world able to reach them here, as they learned the shape and feel of each other, and of the future they would share.

Clementine’s breath caught anew as his hand slid between them, and he shifted slightly, finding the tiny nub of flesh that he had pleasured so exquisitely before. Impatient now, aware of the shining pinnacle before her, she abandoned herself to his touch, hearing the rasp of her own breath echoing his, the tension growing within her just as it did in him.

He cried out when her body tightened beneath him, around him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her cry of surprise and pleasure bursting from her lips. Together they tumbled headlong into the decadence of release and allowed bliss to overwhelm them.

“Don’t forget the strawberries and cream! Oh, and those little lemon tart things.”

Beau, who already had his hands full with the champagne bottle, glasses, and a plate of savoury tarts, looked at his wife with a wry expression. “And where do you propose I put them?”

“Well, I don’t know. I seem to remember someone promising to keep me in sickness and in health mere hours ago, but if you can’t even feed me properly, it seems I have struck a very bad bargain.”

She sat in bed, as regal as a queen, surrounded by pillows. Her hair was a mess of billowy blonde tresses that fell over her naked breasts, and Beau was finding it increasingly hard to keep his wits intact. She was just so… so splendid, and bold, and funny and kind and… and he was in a very, very bad way.

He wasn’t even certain he cared, except there was a tense little knot inside him, one that feared what would happen if he let go and loved her the way he knew he could, the way he now knew he must, if she was to be happy with him.

Returning to her, he arranged the plate of savoury tarts on the bed, poured her a glass of champagne and handed it over before going back to the table. “Strawberries, cream, and…”